Melanie Tait (left) and Ginger Gorman used to be colleagues, and sworn enemies.
GINGER GORMAN
Just before Christmas three years ago, I realised that I was a bitch. And my life changed because of it.
Things weren't going well. I'd just been made redundant by the ABC after 13 years.
As I've written previously, the process was shattering and humiliating. It was like being stripped naked in front of everyone you know and then slowly dissolving before their eyes. For a brief window in time, I lost myself. Who was I?
Like most revelatory moments, you've got no idea they are coming. In the midst of the redundancy maelstrom, I was on the phone to another ABC colleague. In passing, this person mentioned the name of someone we both knew: Melanie Tait.
"I've got go," I said and abruptly hung up the phone.
Without consciously thinking through what I planned to say - or even why I was calling - I dialled Melanie's number. She picked up the phone. There was trepidation in her voice. Of course there was. She wasn't happy to hear from me.
"Melanie," I said, "I'm so sorry. I just realised I've been a total bitch to you."
"Yes you have," she replied, "I was always so happy for you when things went well. But you were never happy for me."
There was a tremor in her voice; she was angry and I deserved it.
"I can't even explain it. I can't excuse it. I just want to say, 'Sorry.' I don't want to be that kind of person," I said, "but I have been."
This is the thing about Melanie: she's gracious and big hearted. She accepted my apology right there and then and reopened the door to the possibility of a friendship - a door I'd previously slammed shut.
With her blazing smile and eyes, Melanie came to work at the ABC in Canberra in 2009. Before she even got to the office, people were chatting about her achievements.
She'd written a successful West End play. A year after returning to Australia, she then wrote a book about her experience of getting a gastric band and was even interviewed by the ABC's Richard Fidler on national radio about it.
Oh I seethed at Mel's successes. Instead of being happy for her, I was unhappy for myself. And I wasn't the only one. The media is a ruthless and sometimes jealous industry to work in. Newsrooms are high pressure places with decreasing budgets and staff. So much talent. So much insecurity. So few opportunities.
When other people in the community bitched about Melanie, I let them sway me; I was not the better person. When Melanie tried to strike up a pleasant chat with me, I shut her down.
It took this crisis of self back in 2013 to step away and see this toxic behaviour for what it was. The redundancy process made me feel so small. I didn't want anyone else to feel small because of me.
Melanie gave me a second shot and I gratefully grabbed it. In essence, she did me a feminist favour. I didn't just change my attitude to her; I changed my responses to all other women around me.
I went out of my way to congratulate my friends and acquaintances on their wins - and mean it. Other women's beauty or success - or both - simply stopped mattering.
New friendships have blossomed and with them, personal and professional doors keep opening.
Last year when I went to Hobart - where Mel lives - we met up for breakfast and a walk with her two dogs. To any passer-by this would have looked pleasant and ordinary - just like any two girlfriends meeting up for a chat (and piles of coffee and bacon).
For me though, it was much more. This sunny morning on the Apple Isle was the symbol of forgiveness and the seeds it plants.
MELANIE TAIT
When Ginger called me a couple of years ago with her peace pipe, I was astonished.
A few months before, I'd been watching an interview Ginger did about when she fought cancer. She was smart and warm and funny, and I found myself thinking, "We'd totally be friends, if we met in any other context."
I messaged her on Facebook to say this, and got a brush off of an apply.
"Bugger her," I thought, for about the gazillionth time in my life, but this time I really meant it. My strongest and richest relationships have always been with women, and my biggest achievements professionally have been with the support of other women. And, I'm someone who takes great pride in mentoring younger talented women.
But Ginger. I always had a little poison in my heart reserved for her. A bit of relish when something didn't go her way.
From the beginning of my career at the ABC I was aware of Ginger, and I somehow instinctively knew we'd be in competition with each other. Her reputation as a Creative Person - someone with great ideas - had made its way up to Darwin, where I was a cadet in the rural department.
As a baby reporter, I arrogantly thought that no one's creativity could surpass mine, so when I listened to the terrific radio packages she did, I was too young to ask for guidance and only thought about trying to outdo her.
We seemed to follow each other around the country for a while. I got a radio presenting job she'd tested for in Darwin, Ginger got a presenting job I'd been desperate for in Cairns.
When Ginger came back to Canberra, we were working in the same office for the very first time. Despite all the tension, I thought we'd eventually become friends.
That particular office was jam packed with promising young female broadcasters and we all loved each other, hung out with each other, helped each other out, all while acknowledging we were in this weird competition with each other to be on the air. All, except Ginger and I.
Don't let Ginger's part of this story fool you into thinking I'm an innocent bystander. When Ginger finally got her own show, it was almost all out war. The most insidious type - one conducted behind each other's backs.
I was devastated to miss out on that opportunity, even more so that it was given to Ginger and not to one of my "friend colleagues".
I came up with all kinds of conspiracy theories as to how she'd secured it over us, and I'd spew them out to anyone who'd listen.
And, I worked my butt off that year so that I'd be named her replacement in the next broadcast year, which made the tension even worse.
When Ginger was made redundant from the ABC, I felt a bit of schadenfreude, but I also knew she would be completely fine. Even though we couldn't be in the same room without tension rising, I knew she was incredibly talented and full of terrific ideas.
I was able to wish her well, because I thought I'd won.
You can imagine my surprise when some time later she called asking for a chat. And, apologised for her part in our uneasy time as colleagues - a spectacular act of bravery.
Since then, our friendship has grown. We're real friends now. We support each other.
We're happy for each other if a new work or personal goal is reached. We've even talked each other through some actual problems.
Ginger's generosity has been astonishing. She's read my work, shared it, shared contacts, shared insights. I hope I can do the same for her soon.
Interestingly, both of us are now being more creative than ever before. Jealousy only diminishes us, working together and supporting each other makes us stronger.
It's also taught me a great lesson about "bitching". "Bitching" feels bad, because it is bad. It extracts energy from this world, when we all have so much to love and respect about each other.
And, let the record show (!), I've let every one of our mutual colleagues know what a brave thing she did in reaching out, to try and make up for some of that conspiracy bitching I did a couple of years back.
And anyone I didn't get to? Hopefully you're reading this now!
‘Mum had lived and died with this secret,’ says writer Mary Garden.